


Nothing Else Like It

by luxover



Category: Generation Kill, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, YAGKYAS, YAGKYAS 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in Kuwait, still waiting for orders to ship out, when pictures of the first ever Stark Phone are released.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Else Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [abrokencompass](http://abrokencompass.livejournal.com/)'s YAGKYAS 2012 wild card 'The Avengers.'

**i.**

They're in Kuwait, still waiting for orders to ship out, when pictures of the first ever Stark Phone are released.

"Oh my fucking god," Ray says when he sees them. He's sitting on the bunk next to Brad, their shoulders pressed together as they both lean in towards the computer screen to get a closer look. "A weapons company manufacturing cell phones... This is better than the first time a girl let me finger her pussy."

"Shut the fuck up, Ray," Brad says. It's a knee-jerk reaction at this point. And then, "I want one."

"Fucking duh, dude. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, homes," Ray says. "That is a thing of beauty. I can already tell you it's going to be my first combat jack. I feel like if I look at this much longer, I'm going to come in my pants like I was a high school virgin loser instead of the highly trained Marine Corps killing machine that I am."

"You _were_ a high school virgin loser," Brad reminds him, "and I'd hardly classify your Whiskey Tango, sister-fucking, mentally retarded self as a highly trained killing machine."

"Hey, Sergeant," Trombley interrupts, his voice flat. He's lying in his bunk and staring at the ceiling, his weapon tucked against his side. "You think we'll get to kill some Hajis soon?"

"You're a crazy fucking psycho, Trombley," Ray responds, his eyes still glued to Brad's computer screen. "Try to be normal every once in a while. You know, jerk to Rudy shirtless instead of—fucking—murder or whatever gets you off."

There's a pause for a moment, like Trombley doesn't know how to respond—and he probably doesn't, Brad figures; he's still new, newer than most of them—and then he says, "Hey, Sergeant, is Corporal Person a faggot?"

"He's in love with a piece of technology, Trombley; I don't think Ray even knows what he is," Brad answers.

"I'm in love with Tony Stark," Ray corrects. "It doesn't make you gay if he's a billionaire."

"Look at his sunglasses," Trombley says. "He _looks_ like a faggot."

The LT walks into their tent then, his Kevlar tucked under his arm and a bunch of papers in one hand. Brad tells himself not to stare, because he is the Iceman and the Iceman doesn't stare, but he's not so sure that he manages. It's the lips, Brad thinks. Maybe.

"Brad," the LT says. "A word?"

"Sir," Brad says in affirmation, and then he gets up, tells Ray not to fuck with his computer as he follows the LT out of the tent.

Out in the hot Kuwaiti sun, Lieutenant Fick puts his Kevlar back on and keeps walking.

"We're running a training exercise in oh-two-hundred hours," he says. "I need you to get your men ready and meet at the south end of the base by fourteen hundred hours, in full gear."

"Yes, sir," Brad says with a nod. "Any word on when we'll move out?"

"Not as of yet," Lieutenant Fick says, "but we are doing our duty just by being here." His eyes are big and blue, and he looks so fucking young that Brad can hardly stand it. And then, after a quick pause, the LT looks at Brad and quirks a small smile. "You a big fan of Stark Tech?"

Brad shrugs, says, "With all due respect, sir, the Marine Corps has taught me that I'm a big fan of anything that actually fucking works." It's a cheap shot, Brad knows it is, because he knows that it's not the LT's fault, and that the LT is stuck with the same piece of shit chain of command that he is.

"NVGs still giving you a problem?"

"Not technically, sir," Brad says. "They'd work just fine if we actually had some batteries."

Lieutenant Fick frowns a little and says, "I'll see what I can do. We'll need them in quantity when we're Oscar Mike, but until then, you'll have to make do."

"We always do, sir," Brad says, and the LT nods sharply, once. He turns to walk away before stopping and turning back to Brad.

"That new Stark Phone is something else, though, huh?" he asks. He's wearing a crooked grin and Brad's chest tightens. "Nothing else like it."

"Wouldn't have pegged you as a tech geek, sir," Brad says.

Lieutenant Fick shrugs, as if that explains anything, and says, "My sister works for an electrical engineering company."

And that's personal—something Brad doesn't know how to respond to, doesn't know how to file away because it comes from his LT—and so after a long minute of nothing, he says, "Yeah, it is something else."

The LT nods back and says, "I'll keep that in mind."

Brad's warrior spirit is affronted that he doesn't know what that means.

**ii.**

The fact that they take an entire fucking airfield with no casualties is pretty badass, Brad can't deny that. He vocalizes it, too— _pretty fucking ninja_ —but right afterwards, it's boring as fuck. Nothing happens.

They listen to Rudy's radio a bit in the downtime, but it's more of the same, just hippie liberal BBC bullshit, and so Brad avoids it and usually ends up talking with the LT instead. On one hand, that makes this whole Iraqi shit storm that much easier; on the other, it makes nothing else easier at all.

It's near dark out, and he and the LT are looking out at the Iraqi horizon; they're pressed shoulder to shoulder, and Brad imagines that he can almost feel the heat from Lieutenant Fick's arm through his MOPP suit. For a second—just a second—Brad wishes it was Fick who sought him out under the Humvee, and not Rudy. He wonders if that would have changed anything.

"I'm fine, sir," Brad says. He hates having to say it, but the Lieutenant keeps acting like Brad isn't.

"I know," Fick says, not looking at Brad. "And I know command is—I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, sir," Brad says flatly. He's just tired, mostly.

"I'm serious, Brad, don't let this get to you," the LT reiterates, and now that he's looking right at Brad, Brad wishes he'd look away again. "You're a hell of a Marine, and you should be proud of that."

And Brad doesn't mean to, but for some reason, he still opens his mouth, still says, "Not much to be proud of when a kid gets shot."

"You were under orders," Fick says. "So don't—" He cuts himself short before saying, "I trust you, Brad, and I need you here with me, one hundred percent. Alright? A kid got shot, and that's on us; I get that. But you were doing your job, and I need you to keep doing your job. Can you do that, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," Brad says, because he can. He was born for this; he's been a Marine his entire life, even before he knew it. "Anything you need."

Fick smiles, just the slightest bit, and Brad wants to brush his fingers across Fick's cheekbones. Instead, he balls hands into fists and shoves them deep into his pockets, and the LT looks at him like maybe he knows, like maybe he wants to say something.

If he does, if he wants to say something, Brad never finds out, because Q-Tip comes bounding around the nearest Humvee, calling out.

"Iceman!" he's saying. "Brad, hey, man, have you—whoa, LT, didn't see you there. Sorry, sir." He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder and says, "I'll just—"

The LT just smiles, shakes his head, and says, "It's no problem, Evan. We're finished, anyways."

"This better be good," Brad says. He deals with too much bullshit as it is; he doesn't know what Q-Tip could possibly want from him.

"Screwby," Q-Tip says. "You'll wanna hear this." He fixes his du-rag with his Kevlar between his knees, and then holds his two hands up, palms out. "I ain't sayin' that it happened, but your man Ray is trying to get us to believe that some scientist dude out in San Francisco turned _green_ and just started _destroying_ everything. Like, entire city blocks, man."

"It's Ray," Brad says slowly. "How much Ripped Fuel has he had?"

"I don't know," Q-Tip says, but it sounds like _ah oh no._ "He's sayin' BBC's reportin' on it, and that you'd back him up. Says the government had to send in some of them weak army fucks, too, just to take the guy out."

Brad doesn't know what to say. He's tired, he wants to sleep, but he knows that he's got too much to do, and that they'll probably head out by morning, and so sleep doesn't seem like it's coming any time soon. He's too fucking tired to deal with Ray's shit, even if it's not coming directly from Ray.

Luckily, Christeson walks by and Q-Tip gets distracted, shouting out, "Hey, man, wait up!" and jogging after him.

Brad looks at the LT; he's smiling the way that people who only deal with Whiskey Tango bullshit in small doses smile.

"So," the LT says. "A chunk of the army is back on the West coast, enjoying In-N-Out, and we're here, stuck with MREs."

"They're taking out the Jolly Green Giant and still couldn't even do us the good grace of sending over some goddamn jalapeno and cheese," Brad agrees. He's not joking—he could go for a jalapeno and cheese—but it startles a laugh out of Fick, and Brad likes that. He likes making the LT laugh; he's too serious.

"Go deal with your Corporal, Brad," he says, still smiling. "And get some rest. I'll see you in oh-three-hundred hours."

"Sir," Brad says, and he turns on his heel, heads back towards his victor. He wants to turn back, to see the curve of Fick's mouth just one more time as he smiles, but he doesn't, just keeps walking straight.

So there's that.

**iii.**

The LT gets a nice send-off, as good a Paddle Party as possible for the man who put up with their shit and got them out alive; they all show up at the Lieutenant's rental with cases of beer and refuse to take no for an answer. It's nice, being back together, everyone still neck deep in macho homoeroticism, only this time it's with less chance of death and zero grooming standard.

"I dunno, brah," Lilley says when someone mentions that, "Pappy still shaves like his mustache is being policed."

"Hey, brother," Rudy calls out. He's slinging an arm around Pappy, laying a palm flat on Pappy's chest, the two of them still as fucking oddball as ever. "My man Pappy is a classy individual. There's no harm in looking good and taking care of yourself; you should try it."

Everyone breaks out in a chorus of _ohhhh,_ but Pappy just shakes his head.

"Ya'll are idiots," Pappy says. "This mustache ain't no different than any of the times Sixta was on my ass, thinking I was breaking regulations."

"Sixta!" Garza says like he forgot, and then Chaffin's up in his face, yelling, "Devil Dog! Your moostash hairs! Violation! NJP!"

They all laugh at that; everyone's real loud. Brad forgot how loud they were, because after a while, they were just too tired to be loud, or in too dangerous a place. Now though, he remembers that he served with a bunch of fucked up, Special Olympic rejects. He'd never have socialized with these guys if it wasn't for the Marines, but now that they've been through hell together and still come out the other side swinging—it's nice.

When the sun's been down for a while and Chaffin's on his way to becoming well beyond drunk, Brad goes into the kitchen to grab another beer. The LT's there, by himself, just leaning against the counter and looking through the doorway at everyone. He looks young as fuck until Brad looks closer, and then he just looks impossibly old.

"You okay, LT?" Brad asks, and then, because Fick doesn't make him nervous but comes closer than anyone has in a long time, Brad ducks his head down and rifles through the fridge for what he wants.

"Yeah," Fick says. "Just hard to believe, you know?"

And Brad's about to ask what's hard to believe—that he's been honorably discharged, or that he's home, or that he got them out without anyone dying—but then the Gunny walks in, and so Brad doesn't say anything.

"Hey, guys," Gunny Wynn says, and Brad likes him a lot, but he gets irrationally jealous, too, of how close they are, of all the time the Gunny got to spend with Nate, all the time he got to spend looking at Nate. And they're not like that—Brad knows they're not like that—but that doesn't do much for the knot in his chest. "I'm gonna head out; early morning tomorrow."

"Sure," Nate says with an easy smile. "Let me walk you out."

And before they even go anywhere, Brad's gone, heading in the opposite direction and towards the empty deck outside. It's cold out, especially for California, and that makes him miss his bike; he should've taken it here, instead of driving with Ray, but Ray was insulted thinking that Brad didn't trust his driving on the 101, and Brad was tired of hearing him bitch, so they took Ray's giant piece of second-hand junkyard shit instead, the one he bought just to leave at Pendleton, _just in case._

The glass door slides open behind him, and Brad doesn't even need to look in order to know who it is; benefits of Recon, of brotherhood.

"LT," he says in greeting, still looking out at the trees.

"It's Nate," the LT tells him. "I'm not your Lieutenant anymore."

"Nate it is, then, sir," Brad says, because old habits die hard and because Nate'll always be his LT, even when Brad's retired, even when time has dragged on long and they haven't talked in years.

Nate laughs under his breath at that, and then leans down, rests his forearms on the deck railing right next to Brad's. He's got his beer bottle in hand, and starts peeling at the label with his fingertips.

"It's too bad Virginia couldn't come," he says. "I wanted you to meet her; you remind me of her, sometimes." Brad nods, because of course. _Of course._

"Your girlfriend?" he asks. Their platoon is a bunch of gossiping teenage girls, but if Nate never mentioned it, he never mentioned it; no way for Brad to have known all this time.

"No," Nate says, shaking his head a little. "My sister."

And then, without looking at Brad at all, Nate presses the back of his hand against the back of Brad's, and Brad carefully doesn't move. Instead, he lets the LT awkwardly tangle their fingers together, the backs of their hands still pressed tight, and doesn't bother to hold back his small smile.

"Sir," he says.

Nate must hear something in that, something that he likes, because he says, "Brad," and just smiles back.

**iv.**

Brad likes England well enough. It's a nice change of pace from Iraq, anyway, and since all of his Bravo Company brothers have gone their separate ways, there's not much holding him to First Recon. The Brits are nice enough, too, even though some of them are grade-A retarded and their idea of cussing and slang isn't even fucking English. Brad makes do. He's on base for now, at least. Shower, internet, shitter; he got all the amenities.

He's on his way back to barracks to Skype with Nate when he sees it: some fucking idiot climbing into an air duct with a bow and arrow. He asks the Sergeant walking down the hall with him about it, too, says, "Who the fuck is that idiot?"

"Dunno," the Sergeant says. He and Brad work closely together, and sometimes, when Brad sees him out of the corner of his eyes, he thinks he's Walt. "Not one of ours; we were briefed that some people from S.H.I.E.L.D. were doing a quick layover at our base, but nothing else said."

"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Brad asks. "The fuck is that?"

"Hell if I know," the Sergeant says, and that's that; they're just letting some random guy crawl through their air ducts. Grade-A fucking retarded.

Brad thinks on it for the rest of his walk, about S.H.I.E.L.D. and the way the ceiling panel fit right back into place like it had never been moved, and he means to ask Nate about it, because if anyone knows about unsung government departments, it's Nate, but then Brad boots up his laptop and signs in, and there's Nate's face, full-screen on his laptop, and Brad just forgets. Nate does that to him, sometimes.

"G'morning," Brad says, because he's on a late lunch break, but Nate's still in bed, just waking up. He's not wearing a shirt, and Brad thinks he's doing that on purpose, showing off his collarbones; they're still new into all this, but not so new that Brad wouldn't jerk one out with Nate over video chat if he wasn't in the middle of fucking barracks.

"Hey," Nate says, smiling. "How's your day been?"

"Alright," Brad says, and he shrugs. "Spent the morning with the Encino Man of the Royal Marines, though, so it could have gone better."

"At least you're not writing a paper all day," Nate says, and Brad rearranges himself on his bunk, tries to get comfortable without letting his boots on the sheets.

"Small mercies," Brad agrees.

They're quiet for a moment after that, the two of them, and that's strange because they don't get to talk often enough as it is. Brad spends a lot of his time—not all of it, but some of it—thinking about Nate, and what he wants to tell Nate, and then when he's finally got him, he's got nothing to say. Maybe that's just the way Brad is, or maybe it's the way Brad is _around Nate,_ he doesn't know, and he supposes it doesn't really matter. It just is what it is.

"I'm thinking of taking up surfing," Nate says with a bit of a smile. "Going to California for a bit over the summer. Know any instructors?"

Brad rolls his eyes because he feels like it's his duty to, but still says, "I can ask around for you, see if I can find someone."

"You'll find someone," Nate says, sitting up in bed and letting the camera get more of his chest. "I'm assured of this."

"That's a bit confident of you, sir," Brad says, because he can't say what he wants, not even here in England, because even with the Royal Marines, he's still a US Marine, and that never changes.

"I have the utmost confidence in my men," Nate says, and Brad searches for a meaning in that, for what Nate would say if he didn't have to worry about Brad. "It hasn't let me down yet."

"Sir," Brad starts. He doesn't know how to finish that.

Nate interrupts him, luckily, says, "Shit, I gotta go get ready. I have a meeting to get into Special Collections, and if I miss it—"

"Ah, the life of a pussy-liberal college student," Brad says. "You could've been blowing shit up if you wanted to, sir."

"Yeah," Nate says, and the way he's looking at Brad through the camera is like he's right there. "I suppose there are a few things that I miss."

And Brad gets what he means.

**v.**

His second year with the Royal Marines, Brad plans it so that he takes all of his leave over Nate's spring break, and then he hops a commercial flight straight to Boston. He doesn't know what that says about them, that he's going wherever Nate happens to be instead of going home, but Brad doesn't care because he likes things like this, just the two of them, and if anyone asks, it's none of their fucking business.

Brad smiles at Nate when he sees him in the airport, and maybe because he can't kiss Brad, or maybe because that's just how he was raised, Nate takes Brad's duffel and shoulders it as they head out of the terminal. They pass a redheaded woman talking stiltedly in a heavily accented language on the phone, like maybe it's not her native language, and although Brad doesn't know what she's saying, she mentions Budapest and so he figures that it's Hungarian. But maybe not; what does he know?

"Still with me?" Nate asks, laughter in his voice, and Brad quickens his pace to catch up, the nighttime air cold on his face as they cut through the parking lot.

"Sir, you know I can't do anything without clear orders from my chain of command," he deadpans back.

"Well then keep up, Sergeant—"

"Staff Sergeant," Brad corrects.

"—Staff Sergeant, and that's an order," Nate says. He clicks the unlock button on his car keys and tosses Brad's duffel in the back, and then says, "Seriously? When'd that happen?"

Brad shrugs and says, "A few months ago. It's not a big deal."

"Of course it's a big deal," Nate says.

And then, when they're pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway, Nate presses the skin of his forearm flush against the skin of Brad's, all the way from elbow to wrist. It's nice, to finally be touching Nate's bare skin, but it's not what Brad wants, not nearly enough. Brad knows them, and neither of them are the type to hold hands, but be feels like maybe that's what they should be doing, anyways. He doesn't know; he's not good at this stuff, and so instead he just stays where he is.

"I've got a job lined up," Nate says. "For after graduation."

"Yeah? The country must really be going to shit if peace-loving, Ivy League liberals are high in demand."

"Yeah, yeah," Nate says, but he's still smiling. He darts his eyes quickly from the road to Brad and then back again, and Brad has to nudge his elbow to get him to keep talking. "It's with Stark Industries."

"The weapons company?" Brad asks. He has no clue what Nate would do there, or why Nate would even be interested.

"Not any more. Technology."

"That's what I meant," Brad says. "Shit, I'm so used to always talking about their explosives."

Nate shrugs once, like this makes sense, and then says, "Well, ever since he got back from Afghanistan, he's been doing a lot of philanthropy, been real big in anti-weapons misappropriation, and so he needs a few politically minded people to help out."

Brad nods, but still says, "Thought you were heading to DC?"

"I still am," Nate says, and by then he's pulling into a small garage. "This is just for a few years, at most. My sister works for Tony, so."

"Ah, nepotism," Brad says, even though he knows that Nate's earned that job, that he's smart enough to do it. They climb out of the car, and the garage is dark, empty save for the two of them, and Nate still insists on taking Brad's duffel. "She works for _Tony?_ " Brad asks, because he may be in the military, but even he can tell it's strange, calling your billionaire boss by his first name.

"Yeah," Nate says with a small shrug. "They're sort of, I don't know—"

Brad interrupts by pushing him against the side of the car, fisting his hands in the sides of Nate's jeans and kissing him. It's been a long time, and Brad doesn't give a shit about Tony fucking Stark, not when he has Nate fucking Fick right there, right in front of him, leaning up into the kiss and pulling Brad in closer, and closer, and closer.

**vi.**

The next time Brad's stateside, he's long since done with the Royal Marines and his second tour of Iraq, and Poke calls him up for lunch.

"Can't say no to that, dog," Poke says over the phone. "Fuckin' In-N-Out, you can't resist that."

"Maybe I want to avoid the undignified nature of your company," Brad says, but he knows that he'll go, because Poke's the kind of friend—the kind of brother—that Brad's lucky to have, even if he is a race-obsessed, pseudo-intellectual, wanna-be philosopher.

"The _pleasure_ of my company," Poke corrects. "I'm the only sane motherfucker you know."

So Brad leaves Pendleton on his lunch break, takes his bike and speeds pretty consistently fifteen over til he's at the burger place, and it smells good, even outside the restaurant. He missed this shit in Iraq, and although England was more like home, it wasn't _home,_ and their burgers were shit. Poke's got the right idea, with this; it's the best the American West Coast has to offer.

Poke pulls into the parking lot a few minutes later, driving some SUV atrocity that Brad actually likes, that he thinks would be good for hauling surfboards and jet skis. Brad can see through the windshield that Poke's wearing sunglasses that would put even Rudy's to shame, although they're less effeminate, and he's got a shit-eating grin on, like he's going to wax poetic about the injustice of his people or his sad, sorry life as a former LA repo man.

"You hear this shit, dog?" Poke asks, climbing out of his car. "About Captain America?"

"I try to avoid anything that has to do with him," Brad says, pushing off his bike to head over. "What'd that brain-dead idiot do this time?"

"Nah," Poke says, "I mean the real dude, the war hero. Breaking news like five minutes ago, according to NPR. Motherfucker's alive after being frozen in a block of ice for ages."

"No shit?" Brad asks. And then, "The fuck you doing listening to NPR?"

The two of them head inside and Poke does that thing where he laughs, and somehow makes it sound like a _Fuck you._

"Hey, if more people listened to _Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me,_ we'd be a much smarter nation, dog," Poke says, and Brad doesn't bother to respond. Later, though, when they're both sitting down and about to dive into some Double Doubles, Poke picks the conversation back up and says, "You white boys can't even stay dead, the fuck _can_ you do?"

"I don't know, Poke," Brad says. And then he suggests, "Blow shit up? Rule the world? Oppress minorities and withhold their natural born rights?"

Poke laughs, a real laugh this time, and he says, "You _can_ learn! Dog, I was starting to think you'd never see where I was coming from."

"I aim to impress," Brad tells him, and finishes off his first burger. "How's Lilley? You guys still talk?"

Poke reaches over, steals Brad's ketchup and says, "He's good; still walks around with a camera everywhere, even in the States. Figures himself the next Scorsese or something, I dunno." And then he asks, "How's the LT?"

Brad tenses, just for a minute, because there's so many things he wants to say to that, _He's great,_ and, _So smart,_ and, _He's been working at Stark Industries for a while,_ only Brad doesn't say any of that, because he can't. And so instead he says, "Good, last time I talked to him, but it's been a while. Maybe ask Gunny Wynn; they were close."

Poke shoves some fries into his mouth and just looks at Brad like he's not playing this game, and Brad thinks that this is it, the moment that everything with Nate has been building up to, and it pisses him off, that he has to choose between Nate and his job like this.

Only then Poke just says, "Yeah, I'll do that," and Brad can relax. And Brad's grateful for the subject change when Poke asks, "What's this I hear about you taking your ass back to Iraq without me?" but at the same time, he's not fooling anyone.

Poke's not an idiot; he's Recon. There's no way he doesn't know, and Brad, strangely enough, takes comfort in that.

**vii.**

When Brad retires from the Recon community, he's still young—only thirty-six—and Nate lets him figure his shit out for himself, doesn't pressure him as he spends all day alternating between going running and sitting on the couch, taking apart old laptops. Brad spends most evenings rebuilding them, too, with Nate's bare toes tucked under his thighs as he watches C-SPAN.

"There was this man," astrophysicist Jane Foster is saying on tv, "and he proved to be the key for a lot of my research."

The screen flashes an image of a tall, muscular man named _Thor,_ and Brad scoffs a little, says, "They're essentially saying that the steroid-abusing, shit-for-brains, gym rat child that resulted from what could only be a hypothetical homoerotic tryst between Rudy and Manimal went on to be a key component in one of the century's biggest scientific discoveries. I'm going to call bullshit on that one and vote we change the channel."

Nate ignores him, stares pointedly at the tv, and Brad tries not to smile as he turns back to the lap desk that his half-built laptop hard drive is sitting on.

It's pretty fucking gay of him to even be thinking it, but spending time with Nate like this is nice. It's really nice. Sometimes, when Brad was in England or Iraq or out in California, he'd wonder why Nate was even with him, or why he was even with Nate, when they never really got to see each other, never really got to _be_ together. Now, though, sharing Nate's tiny New York apartment and getting to just coexist—to wake up and go to sleep together, to drink beers on the fire escape and watch shitty action movies together—Brad thinks he finally understands, thinks he's finally getting some payoff for all those times he had no one to talk to, all those times he had to jack off alone when he could have been heading out to see prostitutes.

He wonders what Nate'll say when he breaks the news, whether he'll be glad because Georgia's closer, or whether he'll be disappointed because closer still isn't close enough.

C-SPAN cuts to commercial and Nate tries to get Brad's attention; Brad just stares pointedly at his set of screwdrivers because he's a shit, and because Marines grow old but they never really grow up.

"Brad," Nate says, and there's laughter in his voice, or fondness, maybe, and so Brad looks up because he likes seeing that. Nate smiles at him for a second, a smile that means either nothing or everything, and for all his thousands of dollars of training, Brad can never tell which.

"I took a new posting," Brad says, and that's not what he meant to say at all. Nate blinks.

"Oh," he says, and his smile dims a little bit, but not because of what Brad's saying, just because Brad hadn't said anything for so long and so Nate wasn't expecting it. That much Brad does know. "What're you doing?"

"They need someone to be in charge of special skills operations down in Fort Benning," Brad says, and the thing is, he's really looking forward to it. Time with Nate is great, but Brad's a Marine—a fucking cold-blooded warrior—and sitting on his ass all day is starting to drive him stir-crazy.

"Fort Benning?" Nate repeats. "You'll be so _close._ Shit, we'll be in the same _time zone._ "

Brad shrugs, says, "I guess," because Nate'll know what he means. "They need a Marine down there to enforce proper jump techniques or else those Army idiots will jump without a pack."

Nate reaches over and grabs at the side of Brad's ratty PT shirt, and his smile is so wide that he's biting on his bottom lip to try to hide it.

"How much longer do I have you for?" he asks.

And Brad says, "How much longer do you want me for?"

**viii.**

Brad gets back from his second C-130 jump of the day to find that Nate's left a message for him on his phone.

"So, I finally told my boss," Nate's saying, "about me leaving at the end of December for CNAS, and he's—I don't know, especially now that my sister's CEO and all, and anyway, he wants to throw a little party. You know, like a Stark Industries Paddle Party, and I was wondering if you'd want to come up here for it and go with me. As my date." He clears his throat. "Anyways. Call me back."

And Brad—fuck, Brad should've seen this coming. And he did, in a way, but that was months ago, when DADT was officially repealed, and then Nate said nothing and Brad said nothing, and so Brad thought they were on the same page. He thought they both knew that while being gay in the military was allowed, that didn't suddenly make it _okay,_ and that they'd just keep doing what they were doing because it worked.

Apparently fucking not.

Brad shuts the door to his office and sits down, kicks his boots up on his desk even though he shouldn't. He needs a fucking beer to be able to deal with this shit. And on one hand, Brad recognizes that he's being an asshole; he's made Nate deal with two years with the Royal Marines, and two more tours of Iraq after that, and so if Nate wants people to know that they're whatever they are, especially now that it's not going to put his job at risk, Brad should just fucking suck it up and do it. On the other hand, he doesn't want to be defined by it, doesn't want the kind of talk that Fruity Rudy had to deal with, doesn't want the Trombleys of the world asking if Master Sergeant Colbert is a faggot. It's none of their goddamn business what he does with his cock in his own time, none of their goddamn business what gets him off or who he loves.

And that's the problem, really, because he does love Nate. Nate's been dealing with his Iceman bullshit for _years,_ since they invaded Iraq together, and so a part of Brad wonders if anything else even matters. Brad doesn't give a shit about what idiotic Lance Corporals will think about him; Brad doesn't give a shit about what _anyone_ thinks about him.

So he calls Nate.

Nate picks up mid-speech on the third ring, saying, "—or CNN or something, I don't care—hello?"

"Hey," Brad says.

"Hey," Nate repeats. "Did you get my message? You don't—I mean, we don't have to, it was just some stupid idea, I dunno," and Brad just—it's like a Band-Aid; just rip it off.

And so he interrupts Nate and says, "When's the party? I've got to put in for leave."

There's a pause; Nate lets out a breath and Brad takes one in.

"December eighteenth," Nate says, and Brad can hear it in his voice, how he's feeling. "At Stark Tower. Be nice and I'll convince Tony to let you play with his toys."

"Sir," Brad says, because even though he's allowed to say what he's feeling, he still _can't,_ he's still the Iceman and the Iceman doesn't do feelings. "Not to get homoerotic about this, but I could kiss you."

And Nate just laughs.

**ix.**

They're in the elevator on the way up to the Stark Tower penthouse, and Brad's holding a bottle of whiskey that probably costs more than his life insurance policy. He wonders how long they have to stay for, if Nate'll be willing to dip out early even though the party's in his honor or if they're in it for the long haul.

"Don't be nervous," Nate says. "They don't bite."

"Fuck you," Brad says back, but there's no heat to it. "I'm not _nervous;_ I'm dreading having to deal with your pussy liberal co-workers."

"Yeah, well, a majority of my _pussy liberal co-workers_ will not be attending," Nate says, and his voice—it's like he's been waiting for this. "Just my sister and the Avengers."

"The Avengers?"

"They saved New York from an alien invasion like four months ago," Nate explains.

"Yeah, I know who they are," Brad says, and then he has to cut himself short as the elevator doors ding open.

There are a few people in the room, a guy on the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table and a gigantic muscular monstrosity by the bar, pouring bourbon into a large water glass; a redheaded woman coming down off a handstand against the back wall, and the real Captain fucking America, looking a lot less like a waste of space than Captain McGraw did. Brad recognizes them all from tv, but he feels like he knows them from somewhere else, too, even though he doubts it.

Nate's sister comes walking over, and although Brad's met her before, he's still blown away by how elegant she is, how beautiful, and he sees no end of similarities between her and Nate.

Tony Stark's next to her, and all Brad can think of is how fucking jealous Ray's going to be.

"Brad," Pepper says, and she leans in, gives him a kiss on both cheeks. "It's so great to see you again!" And then she turns to Tony, says, "Brad and Nate served in the military together."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Tony asks, swirling the ice in his tumbler, and Brad tenses, but Nate just laughs, relaxed and easy, like Tony doesn't mean anything by it. And maybe he doesn't, Brad doesn't know.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Brad says, making nice, and after shaking his hand, he moves to pass Tony the whiskey.

"I don't like people handing me things," Tony says, and Pepper rolls her eyes, reaches a hand out to take the bottle.

"I got that," she says. "He's—" she makes a hand motion, like, _eccentric._ "Come on, let me show you around." She pulls Brad away from Nate, and Brad just goes without looking back, because Nate already knows he owes Brad big for this. Or maybe he doesn't owe Brad at all, because this is just what people do for the people they care about.

Over by the couches, she introduces him to Clint and Natasha, and just by the way they're sitting together, Brad can tell that they're dangerous, that they know how to read each other. They were all over the news, fighting the Chitauri, and yet they're more impressive just sitting on a couch. Brad's warrior spirit likes that.

"This is the boyfriend?" Natasha asks, and the both of them give him a once-over.

Before he can respond, Dr. Banner is cutting through the room, his shirt wet and covered in something that Brad can't place, and he's waving a hand, saying, "Lab—minor explosion. I'll be right back."

"A shield brother!" Thor yells from the bar by the window. "Come! Let us drink and swap stories of war!"

And Brad doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about, but swapping stories of war is definitely something he can handle, and so this party is immediately looking up.

Clint turns to Pepper and says, "Do you want us to save him from being drank under the table by a Norse god, or should we just leave him to it?"

"Leave me to it," Brad responds without even meaning to, and their laughter follows him as he walks across the room.

Maybe though, he figures later, maybe they had a point, because he's starting to feel it, to feel warm and light and happy, and Thor's still looking like he's just been drinking water.

"He doesn't really get drunk out here," Steve explains. "Not for lack of trying."

"Right," Brad says, and even later, when Nate walks over to him, slides his fingers into the short hair at Brad's nape and tugs, Brad finds that he doesn't mind, and wishes Nate would kiss him, even in front of all these people.

**x.**

They take a cab home because they're both a little worse for wear, and Brad lets himself sit closer to Nate in the back seat than strictly necessary.

"Thanks for coming," Nate says, and Brad's about to blow it off, to wave the comment away, but then he doesn't.

"You're welcome," he says instead. And, "You should come visit me in Georgia."

"Yeah?" Nate asks. "Okay."

Brad opens his mouth to try to explain that he should come in a non-professional capacity, not as Brad's former LT but just as someone in Brad's life, but he's not too good when it comes to talking, and so he doesn't even try. Nate'll know anyways; he has to.

"I got you something," Nate says, and then he goes into his pocket, pulls out something that looks like a Stark Phone, but one that Brad's never seen before. "Newest prototype. Going into production soon, and then they'll start selling them in a few months."

"Shit," Brad says.

"It's something else," Nate agrees. "Nothing else like it," and Brad wants to laugh because there's no one else like Nate Fick, either, even after all these years. Instead, though, he presses his leg solidly against Nate's from hip to knee, and smiles a promise for when he gets Nate home alone.

Nate leans into his side and smiles back.


End file.
